Punch Back
by threadfinjack
Summary: Being the best snowboarder in your hometown is one thing. Being the little fish in the huge pond that is the X Games is another. Emma's finding out exactly how critical the sports world can be on her first visit to Aspen. Lucky for her, there's a snowboarder competing for Great Britain who knows a kindred soul when he sees one.
1. Chapter 1

Emma can't see particularly well over the huddle of the other men and women on her team, but if the crowd's excitement means anything, it's that this guy has _talent out the ass._ She has to shove Ruby and Anna out of her way as she moves forward, fresh air and screams of elation hitting her in the face, just to see Killian Jones begin his jump.

She knows _who_ he is — his face is plastered on a few of the posters in front of her hotel, and they kept replaying his pre-run interview on the hotel lobby television — but she's never seen him snowboard before. People have been out on the slopes all day, but there's a buzz around this time slot because of him, and rather than being smart and icing her aching muscles she's chosen to watch him perform.

She's refusing to watch the big screen's version of his performance on principle, despite how much harder it is to see from the athlete's seating, because she wants to see him _move_. She wants to know what all the fuss is about, besides that eloquent answer he gave ESPN's on-site reporter. People wouldn't be this excited about him if he couldn't perform as well as he spoke.

It's easy to understand, once she sees him in action. Emma makes a point of watching the way he bends low on his way down the sleek curve of the slope, how he shifts his weight forward just before hitting the air. He twists around, spitting snow in all directions off his board, and she's sure he's smiling when he finally lands on the ground, even though she can't see that well from here. He continues on down the slope, cutting wide curves into the snow to build his momentum, and slides to a stop without so much as wavering on his board.

He has the kind of finesse she only dreams about, and rather than feeling impressed or jealous, Emma's just _annoyed._ She's still thinking about it hours later when her shoulder slams into his on her hasty exit out of the elevator and he stops her from tripping on the hotel rug.

"Easy there, love."

Emma lets him steady her, but scowls the second their eyes meet. Reading Twitter and walking had never been her strong suit, but he didn't need to know that.

"Do you call every stranger you meet _love_ , or am I special?"

"Only the ones that run me down on my way upstairs," he countered, not at all phased by her attitude. All she wanted was to run down to the dining hall and shove a couple of those bear claws from breakfast in her pockets, but fate clearly has other plans. "You're Emma Swan, aren't you?"

* * *

She folds her arms, pretending that the sound of her name rolling off his tongue isn't altogether pleasant. Her legs and back are aching from earlier, and lingering in place isn't helping. "Yeah. Why?"

"Why? You scored second in the women's division this afternoon is why. That was a good run...I'd have thought you'd be celebrating with your team right now, actually."

"You scored first," she points out, lifting a steely brow. "Why aren't you?"

"It's only the first night," he tells her with a shrug. She doesn't know what he means but she nods as if she knows what he's talking about. "Were you going to find something to eat?"

"Maybe."

"From _there?"_ She is _not_ a fan of the tone of judgment coming from him right now, and she gets halfway through telling him so before he interrupts her right back.

"I'm only trying to say there's more to this town than the food they're doling out in there, Swan. Consider your health."

Health is absolutely the last thing on her mind; all she wants is the taste of sugar and almond on her tongue. If Killian Jones is some kind of health nut — something she seriously doubts, given his sponsors — she's not in the mood to hear it.

He doesn't block her when she dodges past him. All Killian does is call after her as she's pushing through the door.

"Shake your shoulders out before you go down on the slope," he advises, the smile _still_ evident in his voice. "You're stiff as a board."

* * *

The plastic packaging of the bear claws crinkles against her unmade bed, and it's a lovely, lovely sound. Emma shuts her door, dropping her backpack at the foot of her bed, and contemplates Killian's advice to her as she changes her socks. It's not like she needs them, given how warm they're keeping the room, but she wants the comfort of home. Since it's too late to video chat with her family, she settles for this.

Emma can hear Ruby talking with Anna and Elsa outside in the suite, but she leans against the wall and scrolls through Twitter instead. It's become something of a terrible habit for her ever since the plane lifted off the ground in Boston — she's scrolled through hours of people asking who she was, commenting on her personal appearance, trying to pit her against literally every other woman on her team, but like a bad wreck she can't look away. Now that she's had her first run on the slopes she's waiting for someone to spend a little time commenting on her skills. Everything sounds exactly like she expected it to — bird puns are _everywhere —_ butshe stops herself the moment footsteps wander toward her bed.

"Emma, that is not healthy."

"What's with everyone and my diet today?" She frowns up at Ruby, who must be referring to her phone and not her food. "Oh. I know."

"I'm serious. It's only going to stress you out," her teammate comments, flopping down onto the space next to her. Ruby's her closest friend on the team because of two things: her lack of personal space and her taste in late-night snacks. Emma tears off one of the toes on the bear claw and hands it over, if only to keep Ruby from seeing the other tabs she has open on her phone, and together they scroll through the entire X Games hashtag until Emma starts to fall asleep on top of their empty wrappers.

"Emma, you didn't tell me you made a friend today," Ruby purrs, nudging her to get her eyes open again. She shows her the tweet — it's one of the nicest ones she's seen all day, actually, but seeing that it's Killian Jones who re-tweeted it still sends annoyance rushing through her. Ruby notices, sends her a look, but Emma just brushes it off and sets her phone on the nightstand beside her.

"You were right. Twitter's not helping me get ready for tomorrow."

Ruby's smile is nothing but knowing as she lopes off to brush her teeth. "So the fact that a seasoned athlete just put your name out there isn't encouraging at all?" She slides right up to the sink next to Emma with her own phone, scrolling to find the tweet. "And look at his profile picture! Emma."

"Ruby," she chants back, mouth full of toothpaste. "I just ran into him on my way down to get my food. I don't even know the guy."

"All the more reason to wonder, right? Has anybody else done that for you?"

Emma thinks of the short list of people who could have, and the shorter list of people who would. Her teammates not included, the answer is none.

 _My point exactly_ , Ruby says with a look, leaving her to spit out her toothpaste into the sink.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Emma's turn for a run, her second of the day and third of the week. There's less pressure to perform today than there was yesterday, than there will be in the future, but she still feels nervous as she straps her feet onto her board. She's not expecting as much excitement from the crowd as Ruby got when her name was announced. Actually, she's kind of banking on it. Emma has landed flawless jumps when nobody else is around. It's the giant crowd, both online and live, that makes her anxious.

She takes a moment to breathe and stare out at the slopestyle course, trying not to be aware of the cameraman standing on her left. She wonders what people see when they saw her on-screen when her eyes aren't hidden behind a pair of goggles. If she wants to go by Twitter's opinion? It's probably her resting bitch face _._ The camera pans away from her shortly afterward, turning out to the crowd, and Emma rolls her shoulders back to stretch her muscles. Killian Jones' pleasant voice floats through her mind, totally unbidden, the second she moves.

* * *

 _Shake your shoulders out before you go down on the slope_ , he'd told her, smiling like she hadn't completely blown him off. _You're stiff as a board._

She looks down at herself now, trying to see what he means, and slowly rolls her shoulders again. They lower an inch or two on their way down and she frowns, trying to remember when she let them rise so high. She can't, but she doesn't have time to ponder it, because the cheer rising from the crowd means the Danish snowboarder just finished her second run.

Emma slides closer to the unceremonious slant of snow that separates her and the flock of press waiting below. She waits for someone on the sidelines to give her the go-ahead and presses her weight forward, immediately picking up speed, and seconds later her board leaves the ground.

The crowd screams louder as she inverts in the air, twisting backwards, but it all falls away in Emma's ears. She only hears the rush of snow falling in wake behind her as she launches off the ramps, the grind of her board cutting across railings, the solid thump each and every time she lands. She feels perfectly at home every time she's in the air like this, ice-cold wind rushing at the sliver of uncovered skin of her nose, and by the time the final ramp approaches she feels like she's having fun.

Emma lands her flip unsteadily, but she doesn't feel a thing as the cameras flash and cheers erupt from the sidelines. She stands upright and faces them with a smile — one she's sure will be called rare once it airs — and carries her board away to prepare for her final run.

She's halfway up the hill when her ankle begins to protest, even while she's sitting in the chairlift. _Just one more jump and then you can go ice it,_ she tells herself stubbornly as the lift approaches the drop-in area, hoping it's a momentary ache, but it's obvious from the second she touches down on the ground that she's done for the day.

Emma angrily hobbles over to the area where the trainers are standing, confusing everyone around her, and seeks out Kristoff in particular. She doesn't know him well, but she knows him better than anyone else standing around, so she asks him to check her out.

He's so easygoing that she thinks he's going to tell her everything is fine, but then he raises a hand to help her up instead of strapping her boot back in.

"It's not that bad," she tells him quickly, as if that'll change his mind. "I was walking on it before."

"Maybe," he allows, "but you're swollen. Another wobbly landing and you'll hurt it worse. I think you're done for today."

* * *

Emma wants to refuse to use the crutches the athletic trainers offer to her, but she's sure she won't get to compete if she doesn't use them. Being back in the hotel was supposed to be a reprieve from the endless reporters on the slopes, but there's no escaping the recaps here when all the lobby televisions are tuned to her event. Headless voices contemplate what, if anything, went wrong in her final jump, and she can't take the assault on her ability. Emma moves as quickly as she can to the elevators, thankful for the silence that envelops her once the doors slide open.

It doesn't last. The moment the doors shut, she realizes she's not alone in the elevator, that someone's looking at her with careful eyes and far too much concern.

"Are you all right?"

Killian Jones stands opposite her, pink-cheeked and winded like she is. She'd heard he competed earlier, that he'd placed first in a six-point lead over his competitors. Talking to him suddenly seems worse than watching her own replays, but the elevator doors are already closing. She can't hobble up that many flights of stairs.

"I'm doing great," she grits out, impatience evident in her scowl as she keeps her eyes ahead of her and away from him.

"You don't have to do that. I heard about your leg."

Emma doesn't answer him.

"Look," Killian continues, wading deeper into the tense silence between them, "I know it's frustrating not to finish, believe me, but it was the wiser move. You should be glad it wasn't worse."

He means well, but it's exactly the kind of sympathy Emma doesn't want. In fact, it's exactly the kind of sympathy that sends her whirling in his direction, trying to stay balanced while fire blazes in her eyes.

"Don't give me that bullshit," Emma interrupts. "What makes you think you can tell me to be glad it wasn't worse?"

"How about the fact I heard them speculating that you'll likely recover in time for tomorrow's event? How about the fact I've been in your shoes before?" Rather than shrinking back at her frustration, he steps forward. "One little mistake isn't going to make that much of a difference for you."

He must see how much the comment stings once it's out, because he sputters to correct himself.

"I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"Are you sure?" Emma bites back, rounding on him despite the protest from her ankle when it holds her weight. "You're not the only one saying it. And you'd be right if you did," she adds, "because it doesn't matter, does it? I'm some nobody who can't even complete three runs without hurting herself on a landing, and barely made it here in the first place. Why would I matter?"

She stares at her reflection in the door while his eyes linger on her face, wishing there hadn't been so much truth in her words. When she sighs it's like the entire day's energy leaves her. If she was alone, she would have sank down to sit on the floor by now, and the thought is so ridiculous a manic sort of chuckle leaves her. Killian seems to take it as a good sign — either that, of he has a dangerous knack for reading her.

"Is it bad?"

She shakes her head. "The crutches are more of a precaution than anything else."

"No, I meant...what are they saying about you?"

She turns wide eyes at him, feeling a bit of deja vu, and isn't sure she wants to answer at first. The elevator slides to a halt and opens up on his floor, but he's still waiting for her reply.

"It doesn't matter," she eventually tells him, trying to give him the excuse he needs to leave. He surprises her again by staying, to the point where she almost says something about it, but he speaks before she can.

"You're not going to be able to avoid it if you go up there on your own, Swan. I've been there — it feels easier knowing the worst of it than wondering."

She's been asking herself why he'd care, why he'd bother reaching out to her after she'd been so abrupt, and now the question echoes louder in her mind. Anyone else, even one of her roommates, would have left her alone by now, but he hasn't.

"Where are you suggesting I go, then?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in the slightest of smiles. "With me, of course, if you're willing."

They end up at some little tavern, a complete hole in the wall. It's the last place anyone would expect to find her, and even if they tried, the windows were near-papered over with local advertisements. It's perfect, basically, and Emma feels a smile threatening her face when he sees only one of the TVs on the walls are tuned to the X-Games.

"Quit looking at that," Killian tells her, sitting down with two of the tallest mugs she's ever seen. She lifts a brow but he pushes it toward her, and she's pleasantly surprised to feel warmth in the curl of her fingers. "We're here to get your mind off tomorrow, remember?"

"Easier said than done," she comments, taking a whiff of her drink. Parking was extremely hard to find, tourism being what it was, and they'd both ordered hot chocolate to keep the chill off their bones, but she was still surprised by the spicy warmth wafting up from her drink. "What's in this?"

"Take a sip and see if you like it. I had Granny whip up something special."

Emma obliges, and understands what he's on about immediately. "Cinnamon?"

"Cinnamon." He repeats proudly, puffing his chest out as if she's already proclaimed it perfect.

Somewhere between taking in his smile and the bustle of conversation that has nothing to do with extreme winter sports, Emma forgets about her foot. She forgets Twitter, the third jump she didn't take, the looks on the faces of her every hotel staff member who saw her on crutches a few hours ago. He's got this way of making her forget that she's even an athlete, and it's more refreshing than she ever thought it could be, whether he has a motive or not.

"How'd you find this place?" She asks him when their mugs are empty. "It doesn't seem like many athletes come here."

"It took a while," he admits, putting down his own glass, "but that was exactly what I wanted. I scored terribly on my first race, badly enough that I thought about taking an early flight home. I got myself drunk at the hotel bar and wandered around from place to place until I started to feel the cold again. This was the only place I remembered the day after."

"Really?" It's not the story that surprises her, really. It's the way he recalls it for her so without an ounce of hesitation.

"Well, nearly. I remember being tossed out of another bar, but it's the worst place in town. Terrible food, worst management I've ever come across...it's a lucky thing they threw me out before I could have a drink."

"So you're a troublemaker, then."

"I prefer scoundrel," he grins, that pride back in his voice.

Emma tries to picture it. She hadn't followed him much in his early years in the sport, but she dimly remembered a bit of press about his reputation. She felt embarrassment at the thought; she would have probably seen more of it if she wasn't so concerned with what people said about her.

Forget her ankle, Emma barely feels the cold on the walk to the cab, even when the cracked leather seats barely warm while they ride back to the hotel. She makes him promise he'll let her pay him back when he covers the fare, and together they trek up the hill to the hotel entrance, somehow avoiding every patch of ice in their way even in the low light. She doesn't have a name for what she feels when he smirks at his own jokes in the elevator, but she knows _annoyed_ isn't it.

* * *

"And where have you been?"

Ruby gives her less than a minute to sit down and change out the ice packs on her foot before she comes forward, phone in hand. Emma feels terrible all at once, thinking of the texts she'd ignored after her jumps, but then she catches sight of Ruby's grin.

"Out," Emma tries, knowing that answer won't be enough. "I just wanted to clear my head."

"Out with Killian Jones?"

"Who told you?"

She sticks the phone in her hand for the second time in two days, showing her yet another re-tweet from Killian Jones' account.

"This was five minutes ago. You want to see the one he _wrote_ when you got hurt after your jump today?"

She bristles, but Ruby's already scrolling.

 _Emma Swan deserves a chance. I say we let her take it before we start publishing false reports of what happened on the slopes today._

"What reports?" Emma asks, frowning at the screen, but Ruby's already pulling the phone away with a triumphant look on her face.

"That's what you're focusing on? Seriously?" She gives up, falling back on the chair next to the couch and grabbing the remote. "Emma, I don't know what to do with you. You've got this guy taking you out to fancy places off the resort —" Emma snorts at this, thinking of the dive bar they'd been to "and you act like it's not special."

"It's nothing. He doesn't even know me," she responds, more knee-jerk reaction than anything else, but Ruby's point lingers in her mind later on when she falls into bed. Emma resists the urge as long as possible, but eventually she pulls her phone off the nightstand and pulls the tweet open again, scanning it over and over.

 _Emma Swan deserves a chance._

It's not much, but it's more than enough to coax her to sleep, her sore ankle completely forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma's phone is resting on the inside of her elbow when she gets the notification. The buzz against her skin and shine of light through her eyelids jars her just before she can fall fully asleep, and it confuses her, because there isn't a single text waiting on her screen. Everyone who typically sends her anything is either out in the suite's common room watching tv or asleep down the hall.

 _Can I see you tomorrow?_

It's not a text — it's a direct message from Killian on Twitter.

 _Weren't you the one telling me not to check social media earlier?_

Emma rolls over onto her side, trying to hold her phone so the light shines somewhere other than her eyes.

 _If you're busy talking to me, you can't possibly check your mentions._

 _How noble._

 _I've always been a gentleman._

A huff of air leaves her nose, too quiet to be an actual laugh, and just like that she feels a little more awake. The pain in her leg has been tapering off ever since she fell into bed an hour ago; it barely protests when she stretches her feet out toward the edge of the blankets.

 _You're not asleep yet, are you? I'll shut up if you are._

Emma can't understand how she knows it from a six-word question, but she thinks he's giving her an out. To her it seems like Killian is giving her the chance to roll over and call it a night if she wants to avoid a conversation. There's not an ounce of pressure to get an answer out of her, and God, is that refreshing, especially on Twitter.

 _Not yet._

 _Good. Then answer my question. Can I come and see you tomorrow?_

His persistence feels charming, like something Ruby would say to her if she was avoiding a question. That above everything earns him a serious answer, instead of her usual dodging.

 _I'm not going to stop you if you want to watch me compete._

 _That's not what I meant, love._

Emma has no trouble keeping her eyes open after that. She skips right over the endearment he used and focuses on making sure she's reading his message correctly.

The lonely, careful part of her wants to feign sleep immediately, to pretend like she didn't have fun with him yesterday at all. Starting something with a man who lives halfway across the world from her sounds like a recipe for disaster, but —

But the ambitious, hopeful side of her is wide awake and remembers him opening up to her with perfect clarity, has every encouraging tweet memorized.

 _I guess I do owe you cab fare._

* * *

Emma hobbles through the door of the suite and dumps her ski jacket on the couch, groaning audibly the second the door shuts behind her. It's been hours since she last sat down — the trainer's bench doesn't count — and every muscle burns with satisfaction because of it. Not only did Kristoff give her clearance to compete on a leg that had been hurt yesterday, but she actually scored second in her heat. Three interviews and one ice bath later, she'd finally made it home.

"Emma! Is that you? I hope it's you, because that backflip was amazing."

Ruby's voice pulls her down the hall and into the biggest (and _messiest_ ) bedroom of their suite. Her other teammates look similarly windswept, either from competing or spectating, and she smiles at the group of pink noses pointed in her direction as she steps through the door.

"Everyone on Twitter shut up after today, Emma. You have no idea how nice it is to see us being taken seriously."

"Oh I don't, do I?" She grins and shoves herself into one of the only open spots on the bed, one foot dangling off the bed and her head resting in the corner of the wall. Sitting on something other than vinyl feels amazing, and she basks in it for a second. Chatter picks back up where, presumably, it'd left off when she came in, and she basks in that, too. She barely feels the urge to turn her phone on when she feels as confident as she does now, and a moment later Ruby takes care of it for her.

"The news put out a gif of you flipping and landing. Everyone's been retweeting that more than your actual interview." Emma opens her eyes and turns her head to the left, staring at the impatient scrolling of Ruby's thumbs on the phone screen in her hands. She shows Emma the trending hashtag, which sits right under the first place boarder's name on Twitter's list of popular items, but she feels none of the bitter sting that hit her when her scores lit up the board beside the slope. The adrenaline is gone, her competitiveness with it, and all she can feel now is grateful that people still care about the woman who came in second.

Emma's distracted from her mental highlight reel by the look on Ruby's face. She's scrolling much too fast to read the tweets one by one, so she must be looking for something in particular.

"What is it?"

"He hasn't said anything about your run yet. I thought he would have."

"Who?"

"Killian Jones," Ruby says, as if it's obvious. Emma watches her switch to his profile, almost but not quite leaning to get a better view, and both of them see his last tweet at the same time. It doesn't mention her.

"Ruby and I bet that he'd mention you before you got back to us," Anna supplies, a little sigh of regret falling from her mouth as she says it. "Should've gone with midnight."

A knock on the door distracts Ruby. She gets up with a huff and leaves her phone face-down on the mattress, as if to punish it somehow, and Emma stretches to fill the space.

"Please tell me that's an early dinner. I didn't stop at the cafeteria on my way up here."

"You should've."

"I know." Emma had been so eager for a moment's peace she'd skipped the cafeteria, and now she was paying for it.

"Emma!" Ruby's voice carries through the suite again, and _this_ time Emma can hear a shit-eating grin in her words. "You've got a visitor at the door here."

* * *

She gives her roommates the quickest and quietest warning not to follow her that she can manage — _shut up, Elsa, it might not even be him —_ and makes it to the door in time to see Killian leaning in the doorway to the hall, smiling crookedly in Ruby's direction. His eyes find her, expression brightening but not changing in the slightest, and it's all she can do to control her reaction before Ruby turns around to look at her.

"Look who I found at the door _with a gift for you_ ," she says, stepping aside to give Emma a better view. Emma suddenly remembers talking to him late last night, a conversation forgotten in the rush of the morning, and how he'd asked to see her.

Had she known what she was agreeing to, she might have been more careful.

She gives Ruby the most pointed, dangerous look she can muster, and manages to send her off before she can try inviting him in. Her friend mutters something that's either disappointment or encouragement on her way back to her room, but it's then Emma's mind catches up with Ruby's words.

"What'd she mean by a gift?"

He pulls a takeout box out from behind his back, and Emma's jaw opens in surprise. She tries to understand how he knows how hungry she is, but she's too touched and too hungry to ask. Emma reaches for it with a sincere _thank you_ on her lips, but he tugs his hand away.

"Not so fast, love. I thought we might eat these somewhere a little more scenic."

Emma frowns at him, suspicion replacing gratitude in an instant. "What's wrong with here?"

He grins again and actually leans toward her, his face only a few inches from hers. "I was under the impression that you didn't want your roommates eavesdropping on us," he whisper-shouts, making himself all too easy to hear down the hall.

Emma looks at him, catching the flecks of green nestled in the blue of his irises. Of all the hi-res pictures she's ever seen of him splayed on the X-Games advertisements, she's never seen those before.

"I'll get my boots."

* * *

Emma expects him to take her back to the little villages outside of the press perimeter, to one of the hole-in-the-wall taverns he claims as second to none. What she _isn't_ expecting is this —finding herself sitting sixty feet from the starting block of the slope she'd competed on earlier today. The sun's already well into its descent toward the horizon, casting a fiery glow across all of the snow in sight. The town in the valley has started flickering to life, too, lamplight and headlights welcoming the night.

Killian's food sits between the both of them on top of the snow, blissfully warm despite the occasional draft of wind that courses through the trees at their backs. It's quiet up here, the exact kind of quiet she'd been looking for earlier when she got back to her room. That's not to say she and Killian have been quiet in the slightest — she actually interrupts him to voice her thoughts aloud, stealing the french fry he'd been reaching for out of the box.

"How did you know that I hadn't eaten?"

Killian looks up at her with fond annoyance on his brow, taking several fries at once to get back at her.

"I remembered how fond you were of photographers following you around, Swan. You weren't going to stop and feed yourself if it meant they could follow you. I thought if I stopped on my way up here and brought it to you, we'd have more time together."

"Time for what?" She wants to sound suspicious, but it comes out as something else altogether.

"Why, for this, of course," he smiles, gesturing to the view around them. Emma knows he means to direct her to look at the empty slope, the graceful and disarming view in front of her, but her eyes are stuck on him instead. His eyes look even greener with the sunset in them. She blames her inability to look away on that, and does the same for the shallowness of her breath.

"You don't have to keep doing all of this stuff for me," she mutters, dropping her eyes to indicate the tray of food. She means to look back up into his eyes after that, but hers get lost somewhere around his jawline.

"All right," he says quietly, inching closer and shoving the food aside. "Doesn't mean I'm going to stop."

She finds it hard to argue with him when their lips are otherwise occupied, so Emma lets it go.


End file.
